Those three words
by Happymood
Summary: Whether they were at war or there was peace, the first person Francis needed was England, but those three words would never come out... FrUk Oneshot


**A.N. Sorry for any grammatical or lexical errors! I hope you'll enjoy this little story!**

The clock showed 2 a.m.

Big red letters flashing right before France's eyes, making him temporary blind, before he groaned, massaged his eyes and turned on the other side of the bed.

France didn't know what woke him up. In fact, France couldn't even understand why he woke up. He had gone to bed two hours before, after a glass of wine as always, tired from a long day just sitting there and listen to politicians talking on and on about some thing or another. It hadn't been the best of days and France really couldn't wait for the next day to come. The fact he had woken up so early, after only two hours of sleep, didn't do wonders for his mood.

He tried to remember what he had been thinking about before sleeping. It was about England, wasn't it? It was always about England…

France damned him, closed his eyes, turned and tossed for a while and then with a sigh, stood finally up.

He wasn't going to sleep anyway.

When you were in the front line, there was no chance for you to sleep. The fear didn't let anyone close their eyes and everyone stood crouched, trying to pick up every suspicious noise as they waited. For what? Everyone was too frightened to even think about it.

France had seen so many wars that he was familiar to the constant noise in the battlefield. He could recognize the hiss of an arrow, the hiss of a bullet, or whether the airplane above them was on his or on the other side. Still that talent of his had never made him feel less anxious.

It's England.

Whether he is on either his or the other side of the land, doesn't matter. Is the thought that _he_ is there, breathing, waiting, trying to see him in the darkness in the same way Francis constantly tried to see him, is what really calmed him down. It what made him want to live just another day more, because _he_ still wasn't dead yet.

He should be used to the feeling but every time, inexplicably, is like he lived it for the first time. When he hates _him_, is like he has only loved _him_ since forever, and when he loves _him_, he wonders why he had hated _him_ all this time.

Arthur screamed at him. He screamed back. With them it was all about scratching, cause each other pain, both physical and mental. It was all about spiting, hurting, drawing blood. A continue twisting of limbs and _him_ screaming Francis' name, never begging to stop.

Throughout the centuries, _he_ was the only thing that gave France courage to go on and not let himself be surrounded by darkness. It was the voice inside his head that told him that it was _Francis_ that should battle against Arthur and that it was only fair that it should be _him_ that would make England pay. It was that same voice that told him to look and make sure Arthur was still okay, still alive, or else it didn't matter anymore if Francis was still standing or not.

Francis called that voice instinct.

Because, near the front, instinct was everything. Was what saved lives. Was what made him and all his men prefer a broken leg over a bullet in the stomach. Was what made him understand his soldiers.

He loves them all, because they are his kids. But he always still felt a little pity for them. He pitied those who still hoped and he pitied those who didn't had someone like he did, someone he needed to stay alive for.

Francis yawned and made his way to the kitchen. He decided that a cup of coffee wouldn't hurt him and turned the coffee maker on. Francis could have prepared a chamomile tea to calm his nerves but he had put the chamomile bags near the tea bags in the same fitted cupboard and he didn't want to open those doors. He hated the smell of tea and it's taste, but he still brought it. Just in case…

Francis looked out of the window. The streets of Paris were strangely silent. The sky was clear and the moon shone full and bright. It was a good night.

It was the same moon that shone above them all those years before, when they sat on the cold, damp ground, back on back, leaning on each other, because there was nothing else to lean on to.

There was an air battle over them and they watched together, fascinated, the two fighters chase each other in the night sky. On the ground it smelled like death. The stink was unbearable the first few times but after a while everyone surpassed it and were just glad to be still alive to savor it.

"Take…", Arthur gave him a cigarette, something rare those times. Francis took it, didn't say thanks, and put it away, somewhere in his chest pocket. It's precious. A man could do anything for a cigarette. For a cigar they could do the impossible, because it was rarer.

"I can't light it right now…" Francis said instead.

"It doesn't matter…" Arthur says. Francis listened to the other breathing behind him before England broke the silence with a sigh: "Right now, nothing matters...", a pause and then: "They never learn, don't they?" he whispered. It didn't matter who England was talking about, Francis' answer would have still been the same.

"No…" he said. There was silence again and Francis felt Arthur fidget behind him. He turned around to see and then he looked down at Arthur's hand touching lightly the ground. In that moment, Francis felt his hand reaching out and he wanted to slap himself for even thinking that it would be okay to intertwine their fingers together.

He withdrew his hand and put it back on his lap. Arthur's eyes were on him and then suddenly he stood up, almost making Francis fall.

"I…I…" Arthur said and Francis looked up at him, waiting, hoping. They stared at each other for a moment before Arthur made up his mind. "I hate you…" Arthur exclaimed instead and walked away, uncaring of the incessant hissing.

Francis let him go.

Francis sipped his coffee quietly and dared to glance at the clock in the kitchen. It ticked 3 o'clock in the morning. He suddenly felt alone.

Alone, as he had felt throughout the Second War. It was 3 o'clock when the news that the Allies had won had reached him. Francis run out of the little house he was staying in and only stopped when he was in the middle of the square, where everyone was already dancing and cheering. He listened to the music playing and watched as finally reunited couples were kissing.

And then…

In the middle of this crowd, Francis concentrated on a face alone. A face among many but it was the only one that made his heart start beating madly as Arthur stared at him, a mixture of emotions on his pale features. Francis probably was looking the same, he thought. Surprised, shocked, angry, happy.

Neither of them moved for a while. Neither of them knew if they should run to each other or turn around and leave. It's Arthur that started walking first, slowly first then just a little faster.

Arthur was angry and Francis could see his black brows furrowing in confusion. He was having an inside battle with himself and Francis could see it perfectly on the other's face. All too soon, Arthur stood just before Francis and Francis didn't have the time to react that Arthur suddenly slapped him hard across the cheek.

"We won, you wanker!" Arthur exclaimed, "Don't look so happy!"

That same night Francis was surprised at how soft Arthur felt against his skin and how the way Arthur's fingers dig on his back made him shiver. He described them as butterfly kisses using only the fingers, earning a light punch on the chest. But Francis was still surprised by the softness of it all, so uncharacteristic of both of them. But what surprised him the most, he realized, was that it was the first time they ever made love.

They didn't talk for many years after that. There was nothing to say. Nothing to clarify. But there was peace and they needed to see each other for political reasons. They was no way they could ignore each other presence.

And suddenly there was fighting again, the occasional agreeing against America, the sitting next to each other and the many tantrums. But somehow nothing felt the same.

It's half past four when the crazy idea flashed inside Francis' head. The image of England, sleeping peacefully in his bed, while France paced around the room, feeling awful, alone and awake because England's features couldn't leave his mind for a moment, made him angry. How could _he_ dare sleeping while France couldn't? So he picked up the phone, dialed England's number and before he could think of what he was doing, it started ringing.

Once, twice, then a:

"I don't know who you are but you must be a real son of a bitch to call at this time of the night…!"

It's England. His voice was not of a man roughly awoken from slumber. It was the voice of a man shaken away from his thoughts. It made France feel better and worse at the same time.

"England…" Francis said. The voice on the other side stopped.

"F-Francis?" a whisper then Arthur was angry again: "Do you know what time is it, you idiot?"

"Is not like you were sleeping…" Francis spat. He almost grinned at the groaned on the other side.

"That doesn't give you the right to call me at this hour!" Arthur screeched, "You know what? Don't call me again. _Ever_!"

Francis knew Arthur was ready to hang up on him, so he quickly said the first thing that came to his mind:

"It's a really nice night, isn't it?"

That seemed to take Arthur by surprise. He didn't hang up but he remained silent. Francis listened to Arthur's softly breathing before he took the courage to continue:

"Here at least it's a nice night…" he said, "The days are nice too, nowadays. My garden is full of life and… you should see it… you'll die of jealousy…"

"Here it's raining…" Arthur said, speaking for the first time.

"It always rains there…" Francis teased.

"Well, it's not my bloody fault, isn't it?" Arthur snapped. Silence again. "I _hate_ rain. There is nothing to do on rainy days. Today, for example, I spent my whole time cleaning my house, taking out tons of garbage and… oh, well, it's boring…"

Arthur's voice is soft. Francis closed his eyes and imagined him there with him.

"I passed before a pet shop today…" Arthur was saying, "…and… and I saw a cute cat… wouldn't it be nice if we brought a cat? It's… well… I mean… when someone is lonely, a pet is…"

"Was it a British Blue?" Francis asked.

"Y-yes… it was nice and…" Arthur stopped, "I would like it to have blue eyes…"

"I prefer them with green eyes…"

Silence. Then a soft:

"Do you want me to come?"

"Did my voice bring back memories?" Francis chuckled. He could feel Arthur fuming.

"Fuck off, you wanker!" and slammed the phone in his face.

Nevertheless, an hour later, Arthur was standing before Francis door. Francis let him in and Arthur made himself home in an instant. As if he had lived there all his life, Arthur made his way to the kitchen, opened a cupboard and took out two tea bags from a box.

"The kettle is…" Francis tried to point.

"I know…" is what Arthur told him.

Francis shuted up and just watched as Arthur prepared a cup of tea in the middle of the night. Arthur's figure was so familiar, that it warmed his heart and without thinking walked closer to the other nation and put his hands on Arthur's waist.

Arthur stopped what he was doing but he didn't move away, tensing suddenly at the touch. Francis couldn't contain himself and leaned down, softly kissing Arthur's neck. He kissed him a little lower, pulled softly Arthur's shirt to show some more skin and kissed there too.

"Is this what you wanted me for?" Arthur sighed. "An easy fuck?"

Francis decided not to comment on the fact Arthur had come willingly and rested his forehead on Arthur's shoulder.

"I just want to feel you…" Francis said. Arthur didn't comment. "Seriously…"

"Move. The kettle is whistling…" Arthur said but didn't walk away.

"Arthur, I…" Francis dared and in that moment Arthur shook him away, turned off the fire and walked away to take a cup. Francis just sighed and walked out the kitchen. He sat on his couch and turned the television on.

He felt like he was going to war. A mist of overconfidence and hopelessness. The feeling that probably you'll be the only one to return home and afraid that if you make a step more is going to be your last.

He felt like was going to war. That sooner or later one of them was going to attack the other. There was tension in the air. A wanting to hurt as much as they had hurt him. In a moment they will be fighting.

He felt like he was going to war and so he didn't speak.

Those words had felt familiar: "Arthur, I…". How many times? But nothing. Words don't come out. What does he wants to say anyway?

"Does it matter?" Arthur told him that night in the hospital. While soldiers died every minute, amputated physically and mentally, their eyes wide as they tried to watch at least one sunshine more.

"Does it matter what we feel?" Arthur told him, "Today I may like someone, the next I will move my armies against them. Does it matter what I feel? No, because someone else decides for me. For me and all of them…"

"I hate you." Francis then said, "I don't like thinking about stuff like that!"

"You have to think about stuff like that! You _never_ think of the consequences!" Arthur spat.

"What are you thinking?" Arthur asked him and Francis looked up from the television set to where Arthur was standing, steaming cup in hand, leaning against the kitchen's doorframe. Francis stared at him for while and Arthur started to fidget under his gaze, not entirely at ease.

"Nothing…" Francis said then and Arthur suddenly wasn't tensing anymore and sighed.

"As always…" he whispered and moved closer. It was Francis' turn to be on edge and Arthur noticed it, years of being around each other, made him sensitive to Francis' every movement, but he didn't stop and turn away, as he would have done. "It's a strange night today…" he said instead and Francis was back to his old self.

"Indeed…" he said. He stared at the sitcom going on for a moment and then: "If I was a real human…"

"You wouldn't have met me…" Arthur said and sat down near Francis. It felt only natural to put a hand around Arthur's waist and he felt strange when Arthur moved a little and put his head on Francis' shoulder.

"That would be a good thing…" Francis grinned and Arthur snorted.

Whether they were at war or there was peace, the first person they wanted near them was each other. It took a while for Francis to realize it and he knew that England felt exactly the same.

But those three words would never come out.


End file.
